When It Counted Most
by crazybeagle
Summary: Besides, Sam reasoned, if the crossroads demon had done a slightly sloppy job patching him up after bringing him back, how was that Dean's fault, or his problem? Set Season 3.
1. Chapter 1

_**When It Counted Most**_

**Chapter 1**

**By crazybeagle**

**Based on this prompt by ****whitereflection****for the ohsam community's h/c comment fic meme on LiveJournal: Sam develops chronic muscle spasms around/near _that_ scar on his back. **

**Set in Season 3, after "Bedtime Stories." Warning for strong language!**

At first, he thought he could hide it. After all, it wasn't like it was a serious problem, if it even was a problem at all, and regardless, they had much bigger fish to fry right now.

And maybe "problem" was the wrong word, even. More like an annoyance.

Albeit a persistent one.

Besides, even if it kind of sucked while it was actually happening, there was nothing actually wrong with him.

….Right?

Well, he thought not.

But inevitably, Dean disagreed.

It was despite all his best efforts that Dean found out at all. Needless to say, he freaked out, which is exactly what Sam _didn't_ want to happen. Besides, Sam reasoned, if the crossroads demon had done a slightly sloppy job patching him up after bringing him back, how was that Dean's fault, or his problem?

But when he got hit hard from behind by an angry spirit during what was supposed to have been a simple salt-and-burn—out in an overgrown family graveyard behind an old farmhouse—and he didn't get back up, it wasn't exactly easy to hide anymore.

He'd been just about to douse the 150-year-old remains in lighter fluid when the bastard found them: the vengeful spirit of one Mr. Jonah McAllister, who'd been murdering adventurous teens who had come to explore his dilapidated, boarded-up house since at least the 1960's. Damn spirits always seemed to know when somebody wanted to torch their remains, and old McAllister came up behind him and hit him hard. When little white lights began to pop around the edges of his vision, coupled with the now-familiar sensation of all the muscles in the center of his back being pulled taut and then snapped hard like so many rubber bands, it took all his presence of mind not to fall forward into the open grave. He sank to his knees and then slumped sideways, eyes watering.

_No, no, come on, dammit…I didn't need this…not tonight…_

And he'd been having a good day today, too. It'd only happened once tonight, and not that badly, either, when he'd been shoveling grave dirt. It'd been easy enough to hide; he was pretty sure Dean didn't notice him wince.

Vaguely he heard Dean, who hadn't been standing close enough to catch him when he went down, yelling his name, panicked. A second later, with a deafening _bang,_ a salt round went off. If he'd been able to look up, he knew McAllister's ghost would have vanished thanks to Dean, but his eyes were squeezed shut and frankly, he wasn't sure which way was up right now.

Get up, said the little part of his brain not overwhelmed by pain. _Come on, you gotta have Dean's back here, get up get up get UP—_

And he tried, he really did. But the second he tried to sit up, another ripping, sickening wave of pain radiated from the spot on his back and he fell back, involuntarily crying out.

"_Sam_!"

_Well, so much for Dean not finding out,_ he thought, dazed. He figured he ought to say something to communicate he wasn't dead or something before Dean had a heart attack, or let himself get whumped by McAllister. He wasn't sure how he managed it, but he ground out a gravelly "'M good," and gave a fairly pathetic one-handed thumbs-up from where he was lying. Another wave of pain slammed into him at the small movement, and he let his arm fall.

A second later, he heard scuffling in the dry grass, followed by a muffled curse and two more salt rounds. And suddenly Dean was bending over him, offering him a hand.

"You okay?"

But Sam just blinked at his outstretched hand, unable to move.

"Sammy? Shit…"Worry flashed in Dean's eyes, but he glanced around instinctively for any signs of McAllister, and didn't dare crouch down next to Sam for fear of getting shoved into the grave himself. "Are you hurt?"

"N-nah, 's okay," he managed through gritted teeth. "Jus' get the—" Rather pathetically, he wiggled the bottle of lighter fluid that was still clutched in one hand.

"Yeah." Dean nodded and bent down to grab it.

Sam closed his eyes again and focused on lying still—he hadn't realized that he'd been shuddering—and just breathing until it passed. It wasn't much use, as he still felt like his back was being ripped in half. But in under a minute, he heard the telltale _whoosh_ of a body igniting, followed by the screech of a departing spirit, and then Dean was there again, lightly shaking his shoulder.

"Sam, hey, talk to me, what's wrong?" He looked terrified, and Sam distantly felt a twinge of guilt. What Dean must've thought of, seeing him go down like that so soon after Cold Oak…

But right this very second—_ow, fuck it, oww_—he was just glad Dean was here and McAllister was toast.

"Gah…" he muttered unintelligently in response. Why was it this bad? It'd never been this bad before.

"Where're you hurt?" Dean pressed.

"Back," he grunted. He didn't have the energy to lie right now.

"Your back? How?"

And despite himself, Sam let out a breathy laugh at the question, feeling oddly giddy. "'S difficult…to explain."

"Explain? What do you mean explain?" Dean's brow knit in confusion. "Sam, what's wrong?"

"Back hurts…"

"Yeah, alright, genius. _Why_ does your back hurt?"

"T-tell you later…" He looked straight up—_should everything be spinning like this_? He shut his eyes again.

Dean shook him a little harder and Sam gasped at the shock waves this sent rippling through him. "No, Sammy, how 'bout you tell me _now_. Don't fall asleep."

"B-but…didn't hit m'head."

"Don't care. You got broken ribs?"

"No…"

"Then _what_?" He sounded frantic, exasperated.

Sam said nothing.

"Sam, you gotta friggin' work with me here. What happened?"

"Tell…you…later."

"Bullshit. Can you turn over for me?" he asked.

"Nnn…."

"Yes. Come on, buddy—"

And with that, Sam felt himself being flipped over onto his stomach. He couldn't stifle a yelp. Knowing that Dean wasn't going to find a damn thing that was actually wrong with him, he buried his face in his crossed arms and tried not to look like too much of a wuss while he felt his back being gently prodded all over. It was a little better now, the worst of the feeling ebbing away and just leaving him sore. But somehow that only made things worse, because now he felt like a big liar saying there was anything wrong in the first place and sending Dean unnecessarily into full on panic mode.

Making up his mind, he took a deep breath to steel himself before half pushing himself up on wobbling arms. "'M good, Dean. It's ok—"

But Dean pushed him back down with one hand. "Yeah, okay, easy there tiger." And it was pathetic how easy it was for him to do that—Sam flopped bonelessly back down into the dirt. "Let's just make sure, alright?"

"Okay."

A moment passed in silence. "Hm," Dean said at last. "Sammy, I'm not sure what's…wait." Sam felt Dean's fingers ghost over the spot where he knew there was a thick, angry-looking scar in the center of his back. "Here?" he asked. "Is this what's hurtin'?" And he sounded positively _thrilled_ about it, Sam thought.

"Yeah," Sam said reluctantly, biting his lip against the intense throbbing in his back, his gaze focused intently on a patch of dry grass inches from his eye. Even if he could have looked at Dean he wouldn't. This wasn't a conversation he felt like having right now.

The light changed; Dean must've grabbed for the flashlight he'd dropped when he'd gone for his gun to get a better look at Sam. "Hurting _how_?" He sounded urgent.

"'S stupid…"

"It's not stupid."

"Yeah it—"

"Try me. You gotta talk to me, Sam. Please."

"Jus' the muscles, okay?" Sam growled.

"Muscles," Dean repeated. Sam could hear the barely masked relief in his voice. "Alright. Okay. Muscles we can deal with. So what, like muscle spasms?"

"Yeah, I guess…"

"You _guess_? Well what's it feel like?"

The rubber band analogy was lame, but Sam couldn't think of anything better right now. "Kinda like…kinda like a bunch of big snapping rubber bands."

It was saying something that Dean didn't make fun of him for that description. "How bad?"

"I told you I'm okay now—"

"_Sam_."

"Bad," he conceded. As long as they had to have this talk, he may as well not sugar coat it. Dean would just wheedle it out of him anyways; he'd seen it happen this time. And on second thought, maybe that wasn't so terrible as he thought; as long as Dean knew he wasn't in any sort of dire mortal danger, he didn't have to hide it anymore.

Damn, he wanted nothing more than to curl up on the ground and sleep for a week right now…

"So, in here?" Dean's fingers traced a broad area around the scar.

"Yeah."

"But nowhere else."

"No."

"You're sure."

"Yeah." Which wasn't exactly 100% the truth, but Dean didn't need to know about that right this very second.

"Okay…" Dean didn't quite sound like he believed him, but bless him, he let it go.

…Well, sort of.

"So how long's this been going on for?"

Ah, the dreaded question. Sam stayed silent, trying to think of the most delicate way to put _Ever since I got stabbed to death_.

"Here," Dean shrugged off his jacket, wadded it up, and helped Sam place it under his head. "So awhile then, huh?"

"Uh-huh." He realized that Dean wasn't mad, not really. Just worried. He did owe him an explanation at some point. But did it have to be now?

"We're gonna talk about this later, okay?" His voice was stern, but he squeezed Sam's shoulder.

Sam nodded into the jacket. He probably would be in for it later but for right now, well, gift horse and all. And besides, Dean was, in general, totally awesome when it counted most.

Sam heard Dean settle down next to him. "Well, we got a minute to chill. Gotta make sure McAllister here burns up nice and crispy before we go." That was one of the cardinal rules of salt-and-burns they'd learned over the years—make sure the remains are _completely _torched before you take off, and just because it _looks_ like the bastard passed on doesn't always mean that it did. Not that it had ever happened to them, except during one particularly obnoxious hunt out in Nevada about a year ago, but still. Usually this was the boring part, because depending on how thoroughly you doused it or how dry the weather was, these things could burn for_ever_ and the smoke smelled bad. But for Sam, tonight it was nothing short of a blessing. He had his hands fisted in the dry October grass, listening to the popping of the flames and the leaves of the surrounding oak grove rustling in the chilly breeze and breathing in cold air and smoke and lighter fluid and dead leaves and Dean's jacket. Lying there, these things grounded him, taking his mind off pain that was quickly, blissfully fading into the background. Dean's hand was solid and reassuring resting on his shoulder.

It didn't take a ton of time; super old remains never did. Sam suspected that Dean sat there with him for longer than it took the flames to get the job done. Eventually, though, Dean shook Sam's arm to rouse him, stood up and switched the flashlight back on. "Hey, you think you can get to the car?"

"Yeah." Sam took the hand that Dean offered and allowed himself to be halfway-hauled to his feet, dismayed to find that his legs felt like jell-o. Regardless, he was pretty proud of his progress—he made it about halfway to the car without incident and without faceplanting, though admittedly with a steadying hand from Dean on his shoulder.

…But only halfway. They were barely past the grove of trees and not even in sight of the gravel road when a sharp pain—but this time, the _other_ kind, the one he'd been sincerely hoping not to have to mention to Dean at least until a little while later—slammed into him like a brick wall, with an intensity he'd not yet encountered or expected. He stopped and stiffened, his knees threatening to buckle under him, and involuntarily sucked in a shuddering gasp.

And there was no freaking way Dean didn't notice it.

It figured that that's what he got for lying, didn't it.

This particular pain had happened before, a few times over the summer. The last time it had happened, he'd spent a good hour puking his guts out in a motel bathroom while Dean was out at the store. The feeling, as best as Sam could describe it, also originated from the scar , but it went all the way through him, making everything ache and burn and contract as though a dull ice pick was being shoved forcibly through his back and through to his midriff. It hurt like hell, but it had only happened a few times, maybe three in all, and as far as he knew, there was really nothing to indicate that it was a legitimate health concern. He looked it up, and the best he could figure was that it was more of the same thing that was happening on his back happening on the inside—muscle spasms, but this time, smooth internal muscles, protesting to having once had a knife slid through them. Nothing he figured he needed to mention to Dean. And seeing as it hadn't happened since August, he'd begun to wonder, apart from the occasional dull ache, if this particular issue had resolved itself. Dean wasn't going to spend his last year on earth fretting over something as ridiculous and petty as residual muscle spasms from an injury that, thanks to him, wasn't even there anymore. Not if Sam could help it.

But apparently it hadn't resolved itself—why the _hell_ was it hurting so bad?—and now it looked like couldn't help it anymore.

"Sam? _Sam!_"

Sam wrapped a protective arm around his middle, trying _really_ hard not to double over for fear of setting off his back again.

"I'm okay," he said through gritted teeth, and tried to appear as such, but it was difficult to remain upright, even when Dean wrapped an arm around his shoulders to help him stay on his feet.

"Sam, why are you holding your stomach? What's wrong?" Yet more panic laced his voice. _Shit._

"Look, it's really okay. Just more of the muscle spasm stuff, is all," Sam said breathlessly, staring at the ground. _Don't throw up, don't throw up, DO NOT throw up…_

"On the inside?" Dean's brows shot up.

"Uh, yeah…"

"Damn it." He ran his free hand through his hair. "You're sure?"

"Uh-huh."

"Positive?"

"Yeah. I looked it up."

"You _looked it up._ So, what, you're saying this has happened before?" he asked, incredulous.

"Uh, yeah, couple times…Let's just go, okay?"

"Hell no. Sit down." He sounded somewhere between petrified and furious.

"No," Sam muttered. "Come on, it's cold. Let's just get in the car." Upright or lying down, it was going to hurt like a bitch either way, so he may as well take advantage of the fact that he was still standing and get this over with. He tried to take a step forward, but Dean stayed where he was.

"Not 'till we know you're okay," was the defiant answer.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, 'm fine."

"You're _not_ f—" Dean started, but Sam cut him off.

"I'm fine, but even if I wasn't, what're you planning on doing about it all the way out here? No cell reception 'till we hit the highway." He hated pulling the _protect-your-little-brother_ card on Dean, especially in light of recent events. As if Dean hadn't already given enough. But all the same, he wanted nothing so badly as the interior of the Impala right this very second.

"Fine," Dean growled. _Fine, but you better freaking be okay._

Sam wasn't quite sure how, but with a lot more effort on both his and Dean's part to prevent the whole faceplanting thing, they made it to the car, pulled over by the side of the empty road. There was not a thing in sight but empty fields, a few trees and a barn and farmhouse or two in the far distance. But to Sam, it was the most beautiful sight in the world.

Three minutes later saw Sam lying in the backseat with a pillow retrieved from the trunk under his head, staring up and out the window at the stars while Dean was doing at least twenty over the speed limit. The spot of the haunting had been about forty miles outside the town where they'd booked their room, the only place for miles around with any motels, restaurants, or library. All the teens who'd died had been kids from these types of remote farms.

Stupid inconvenient Midwest.

Dean spent most of the ride back to town talking at Sam, telling some story Sam had heard already a billion times before about the night Dad had bought Dean his first beer, the tactic Dean had always employed to direct Sam's thoughts elsewhere when he was hurt or sick. Sam, on the other hand, spent most of the ride barely able to listen to Dean's words, desperately trying not to make any noise or writhe around the backseat despite the sensation of his guts burning or the blinding throb his back gave whenever Dean hit a bump or rut in the road. Whenever he did slip up and make a sound, he could see Dean looking at him in the mirror, could practically feel the concern radiating from him.

Sam vaguely wondered if Dean would be nearly so gracious about the whole situation if he did what his stomach was threatening to do—empty itself all over his Baby's interior.

And actually, yeah, he probably would be as gracious. That too was saying something.

They were driving into the town when the worst of it was over. Relieved, Sam let out a long breath before trying to prop himself up on an elbow.

Dean glanced in the mirror. "Hey, stay down, dude." Sam didn't bother arguing and slumped over onto the seat. "You better now?"

"Yeah." Sam stared up at the fluorescent-lit buildings and street lamps, looming upside-down over him. But at the sight, something occurred to him. "Hey Dean?"

"Yeah."

"Did we miss our exit?"

"Yup."

"Why?"

"'Cause I'm taking you to the hospital, that's why."

"What?" Sam spluttered. "No! Why?" He propped himself up again.

"Stay _down_, Sam," Dean barked.

Sam ignored him, and despite the instant vertigo it caused, he sat all the way up. "No," he repeated. "You're not taking me to the hospital."

"Yes, I am," Dean said tightly.

"And tell them what, Dean?" Sam asked, exasperated. "The truth?"

"I dunno, we'll make something up, okay? But we're going."

Sam pushed himself up straighter in the seat. "Look, I'm not a healthcare professional or anything, Dean, but don't you think that if we get the scar looked at and describe the problem that we're gonna get a couple questions about how the hell I'm not dead right now?" As awful as the scar still looked, there was no way they weren't going to see, clear as day, that by all rights his spine should be severed. "And besides, you remember my physical a couple months ago?" Dean had made him get one shortly after Cold Oak, probably to make sure he really was in no immediate danger of dropping dead anytime soon.

"Yeah, what about it?"

The nurse was staring at me completely freaked out, like I had—I dunno, stigmata or something."

"So?"

"So, you can forget about taking me to the hospital!"

"Dude, it's not like we're under oath to answer all their questions. Let 'em think whatever the hell they want, let 'em think you're fucking Emily Rose for all I care," Dean snapped. "They're getting paid to keep their cakeholes shut and help you, no matter what. So yeah, we're _going_."

Damn him.

Sam let his head fall back on the seat and shut his eyes, agitated.

But as soon as the sign for the hospital came into view, Sam had an idea. He was playing the unfair card again, he knew, but at this point he couldn't bring himself to care very much. "Dean, if there really is something wrong, like our kind of wrong, and we can't tell them the truth anyway, how are they gonna help me?"

Silence. In the rearview mirror, Sam could only see Dean's eyes, but they were glaring at him. Sam met his gaze steadily. Because even if that was a low blow, he was right. And truth be told, it would be kinda nice to find somebody who could _really_ help if he was wrong about being fine.

Not that he was wrong or anything…

Dean kept right on with the death glare until they reached the hospital exit. Sam looked at the green road sign and held his breath. He was hurting again and didn't know how much longer he was going to manage to sit up, but he figured now probably wouldn't be the best time to mention it.

But they passed the exit, and Dean finally looked away. "Fine." Sam let out his breath and was just about to thank him when the car suddenly veered sharply to the right. Sam's stomach lurched.

"Dean, what the—"

Dean had made a hairpin turn into an old alley between two buildings. He barely stopped the car before putting it in park, and Sam was thrown slightly forward on the seat.

Dean wheeled around to face him, livid. "Fine. You don't wanna go? I'm sayin' fine. Have it your way. I won't make you. But I swear to God, Sam, if you so much as wince from here on out, I will drag your ass to that hospital so fast—"

"Bobby," Sam interrupted, trying as inconspicuously as he could to shift in the seat to relieve his back.

"What?"

Thinking on his feet and knowing just how likely it was that Dean would make good on his threat, Sam explained rapidly: "Listen, if it makes you feel better, you can call Bobby, see if he knows a doctor who runs in the same circles as us. That way we won't have to make shit up."

Dean blinked.

"Sound good?" Sam asked.

A pause, and then Dean's shoulders slumped. "Yeah," he said tiredly. "Okay."

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

When It Counted Most

Chapter 2

AN: I've been so blown away by the feedback for this. You guys are amazing. Hope you enjoy the ending.

They made it back to the motel in record time, even by Dean's standards. Sam found himself almost a little disappointed in this town's police force. This _was_ an emergency circumstance which would might have been pardoned if they had been pulled over by any traffic cops, but the fact that they hadn't made Sam wonder if any old idiot could rip through the main avenue of this town at all hours of the night doing god-knows-how-many-miles over the speed limit. If it didn't hurt to talk, he probably would've informed Dean that getting them both arrested or killed by driving like a moron wasn't going to help the situation much. Not that it would've done any good. Sam was a little surprised that Dean, in his haste, was even able to brake in the parking space in time to keep the Impala from ramming straight through the wall of their motel room.

Oh, and he couldn't sit up anymore, either.

He could already tell it was going to be a _great_ night.

And to think it was only ten or so. Often, even smooth and successful salt-and-burns could take until four or five in the morning. But because that this one had been in the middle of nowhere, they hadn't had to wait for the cover of night before the carrying out the not-so-socially-acceptable practice of grave desecration, as there wasn't anybody around to see. They had even done a good portion of the digging before the sun went down, despite the brevity of the fall daylight.

It was totally bizarre to Sam that they'd first left this same motel room only hours before, given all that had happened tonight. It literally felt like days ago, at least. It was as though his entire perception of time since McAllister had knocked him down had been weirdly warped. Yeah, it was clichéd, but that whole pain-turns-minutes-into-hours thing? Yeah, it was pretty accurate.

And the other funny thing was, regardless of how damned _long_ it felt, the pain part of it was really the only thing that he would later remember clearly from this night. The rest of it, especially the events after their return to the motel, would be fuzzy. Of course, it helped that he'd be doped up on painkillers for a good part of the evening.

But the sensation of simultaneously having his back being torn wide open from behind and of being skewered through the middle? _That_ was what he'd remember with cruel clarity.

He remembered opening the car door as soon as Dean parked it and falling heavily onto the asphalt. He remembered dragging himself across said pavement and throwing up in the half-wilted marigold bushes growing by the motel door, holding his stomach against the near blinding pain there. And he remembered Dean scrambling to hold him up so he didn't fall facefirst into the dying, puke-coated flowers.

At some point, when Sam had finished and Dean was attempting to help him stand, a middle-aged woman who was staying two doors down from them, and who'd apparently heard the sounds of retching, poked her head out of her room.

"Is he alright?" She looked over at Sam, her penciled eyebrows knit in confusion and concern.

"Uh, yeah," Dean lied effortlessly, patting Sam's shoulder in a patronizing manner. "He just did one too many shots, is all. Bad breakup, you know how it goes. He'll be fine."

Sam halfheartedly turned up to glare at him. As convincing and necessary a lie as that might be, Sam still didn't appreciate it.

The woman frowned. "Oh." Suddenly she looked a whole lot less sympathetic.

"But thanks anyway," Dean grunted as he hauled Sam up from under his armpits. "Have a good night."

"You do the same," she said dubiously, retreating into her room and shutting the door a little harder than necessary.

"Can you walk?" Dean asked Sam once he was finally on his feet.

"Uh…" Sam took a step forward, but his knees buckled.

"Whoa, okay, okay—" Dean caught him before his knees hit the ground and slung his arm around his own shoulders, standing him back up. "You coulda just said no, dude. You didn't need to demonstrate for me."

"Bite me…" Sam muttered.

"Yeah, you wish," Dean chuckled halfheartedly, dragging Sam toward the door and fishing the room's keycard out of his pocket. "Alright, champ, let's get you inside."

And the next thing Sam knew he was lying on his stomach on a bed, his face buried in a pillow that smelled like an ashtray, teeth gritted and eyes screwed shut against the sensation of being gutted. His hands found the sides of the headboard and he held on so hard his fingers ached and his arms trembled. Dean had gone back out to the car to grab something.

When he heard the door open and shut, he managed to turn his head to look. Dean had come back in, lugging their huge bag crammed full of random first aid stuff, sick supplies, and meds. He hefted it onto his own bed. "Hey," he said when he noticed Sam watching him. "How're you holdin' up?"

"Never better," he said with a shaky attempt at a grin.

"No, I mean it, Sammy." He frowned and sat down on his bed. "How bad is it?"

"Could be worse." Part of him knew that evasion was just going to dig him a deeper hole than he was already in. But he ignored that part.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Just cut that out, okay? You're not foolin' anybody." He sat down on his own bed facing Sam, scrutinizing him. "You look like hell. And honestly, Sam, you haven't done one damn thing to convince me that I was wrong saying I should take you to the hospital."

Sam heaved a sigh, then winced when his body protested said sigh. _Right. Shallow breaths._ "So they can do what, Dean?" he asked tightly. "Treat a wound that doesn't exist?"

"No, but they can make sure it's not gonna _come back_!" Dean snapped, and then looked a bit startled, as though he hadn't meant to voice this fear at all.

More than a bit stunned, Sam said nothing. Not that he thought it was very likely, but somehow hearing Dean admit it made it sound like a very real, terrible possibility that he hadn't really considered.

Dean looked down and muttered, "Look, Sammy, I'm not saying that's gonna hap—"

"'S okay," Sam said quietly. Dean met his eyes again. He looked miserable.

Sam hated himself for the next words that came out of his mouth, but they were true. "But if it does come back," he said slowly, "what are they going to do about it?"

Dean blinked once. He looked as though Sam had just slapped him. A second later, he looked away, cleared his throat, and started rifling through the first aid bag. "Yeah, well…whatever, let's just get you situated here and then I'm gonna call Bobby, see what he thinks."

"Okay." Sam closed his eyes.

A few minutes later, Dean had managed to get Sam's coat and shoes off of him and had heated up the two heating pads they owned in the room's microwave for him. Best investment they'd ever made, buying an extra heating pad—they had long since realized that, after hunts where they _both_ ended up getting their asses handed to them, taking turns with one heating pad wasn't going to cut it. Sam now had one tucked under his stomach and one sitting on his back, an ACE bandage wrapped loosely around him to keep them in place. Though the heat helped a bit, he was still biting his bottom lip hard, clutching at the headboard for dear life, and only vaguely aware of the hushed, panicked tones of Dean on the phone. He'd flat-out refused to give Sam any painkillers until he'd checked with Bobby first.

"So, good news," Dean announced some time later, tossing his phone down onto his bed. Sam looked up at him blearily, trying to make his eyes focus. "There's a—" but he trailed off once he got a good look at Sam. "Aw, Sammy…"

"What?" Sam asked, but that was when he noticed that his face was wet. "Oh…" he laughed weakly, embarrassed, and let go of the headboard with one hand to mop up tears. "…Fuck."

Dean smiled sadly, then reached over and patted his arm. "It's okay, dude. You get a free pass."

"So what's the good news then?" Sam asked quickly. "Do I get to take anything?" he added hopefully.

Dean grimaced. "Yeah, I guess. I'm still not crazy about the idea when we don't know what's up with you yet, but Bobby seemed to think that they'd just dope you up if we got you to the hospital anyway, so why not."

Relieved, Sam grinned. "Remind me to get Bobby a friggin' fruit basket. What do we have?"

"We got some stuff left over from when I had to get all those stitches back in Tuscaloosa. I was loopy for days on those… But you need to drink a ginger ale or something first, 'cause you got no food in your system. I think we got some in the bag here. Sound good?"

"Awesome."

"Yeah, I bet. In other news, Bobby's getting in touch with somebody two states over from us. We're gonna sit tight a few days and he'll come to us, okay? This guy's pretty used to making house calls to hunters, and he charges, but the fee's nothing we can't handle. Bobby says he's a good guy."

"Must be, coming on such short notice," Sam agreed, but he wondered just what this guy was going to think when he found out that all this was caused by dealings with demons. But hey, an uncomfortable truth to somebody who might help was better than a flat out lie to somebody who was bound to be useless anyway. "Hey, couId I get some of those painkillers now?"

Dean frowned, obviously torn between his doubts about giving extremely strong drugs to someone with unexplained symptoms, and his desire to see Sam in less pain.

"Look, it's not gonna kill me. I've taken some strong stuff when this happened before, and it helped, and it worked. I'll be fine." He tried to prop himself up on an elbow.

Dean snorted. "_Fine, _huh? You know, it's freaking _hilarious_ how many times you've used that word tonight…" He turned and fished around in the first aid bag for a few seconds, and then gave up, dumping its entire contents onto the bed. He grabbed a pill bottle and a sure-to-be-flat can of ginger ale, set them on the bedside table, and then sat down carefully next to Sam, helping him pivot onto his side and then sit up enough to drink the ginger ale. "Don't puke this up, okay?" he muttered, opening the can and pressing it into Sam's hand. Sam felt sort of faint from being propped up, even with a bunch of pillows stacked under him. All those rubber bands fired off sickeningly all at once as he tried to readjust himself into a sitting position, but he gulped and nodded. Fortunately, Dean apparently sensed this and didn't let go of the can, and helped him drink a bit from it.

Once he was apparently satisfied that Sam wasn't going to spew ginger ale all over the both of them, it seemed that Dean couldn't refrain from asking the question Sam knew had been on the tip of his tongue all night. Even worse, he was doing it when Sam was too busy trying to keep ginger ale down to properly defend his side of the argument.

"So…" Dean began. "This has been happening for…how long now?" Dean was feigning casualness, but Sam could hear the barely-contained anger behind the words.

"Since when do you think?" Sam muttered through a clenched jaw. _Breathe…just breathe…in through your nose, out through your mouth, in through your nose…not gonna barf, not gonna barf…_

"You wanna tell me why the fuck you never mentioned it?" Dean slammed the can down on the bedside table.

"Can I just have the pills, Dean?" Sam asked wearily.

"Tell me _why_, Sam."

"Do we have to do this now?"

"Yeah, we do. 'Cause you keeling over in the middle of a hunt like that? You could've easily gotten yourself killed tonight. _Killed_, Sam. You better have a damn good explanation as to why you let something like this go and didn't think it was important enough to mention to me." His voice was low and quiet, and if it weren't for the desperation in Dean's eyes, he'd have almost bought that the trembling in his voice was from rage.

"Because you'd react exactly like this," Sam said, exasperated. "And what good would it do? Hell, what good's it doing now? I figured if they're gonna screw with me every once in awhile, that's not your fault, so you shouldn't have to deal with it. Didn't see the point."

Dean shook his head. "And what about now? God, just look at yourself. If you'd told me earlier, we coulda looked into it, and maybe we coulda nipped this in the bud way before it got out of hand. It was stupid, Sam."

Sam wrapped an arm around his stomach as it gave a nasty throb. "Yeah, well, who's calling who stupid?" He hadn't meant to say it, but boy, did he mean it. _Which one of us traded their soul to a demon here? _

No elaboration was needed; Dean understood perfectly what he meant. He shook his head. "Don't," he whispered. "Don't even."

"Why?" Sam demanded, feeling belligerent in spite of himself. If Dean wanted to have this conversation, fine. Might as well make it one hell of a conversation.

"Sam, drop it."

"No."

"Yes." He popped open the pill bottle and slipped a few pills into Sam's hand. "Take your pills." Scowling, Sam nevertheless put them in his mouth, and let Dean help him take another drink of the ginger ale to swallow them. He let Dean lay him back down on the bed.

Dean sat down opposite him, arms crossed.

"Alright, Sam. You want me to stop bitching about you not telling me, then you better drop it about the deal. Got it?"

Sam glowered, but muttered a reluctant, "Got it."

For now, anyways.

It didn't take a ton of time after that for the pills to kick in, and Sam stopped being all that responsive after that. But even then, it took awhile for him to finally get to sleep. He drifted in and out of consciousness for awhile, restless, muttering to himself every now and then and staring into space in the general direction of Dean's knee. Dean himself was still seated on the opposite bed, feeling so damned helpless at the sight of those lines of pain that seemed a permanent fixture on Sam's face.

Dean was half tempted to take advantage of Sam's drugged state to haul him out of bed and into the car, and _finally_ get his stupid, stubborn ass to the hospital. But every time he got up to do it, Sam's words from earlier always came back to bite him like an annoying little gnat and made him sit right back down: _And tell them what? The truth?_

It wasn't until Sam was finally, _finally_ asleep, at maybe 1 or so, that a knot somewhere in Dean's chest that he hadn't even been aware of loosened. Well, at least now the hospital decision was made for him. And Sam wasn't awake to be hurting anymore, either, thank God.

But staring at the spot where the heating pad was affixed over the scar, another fear settled over him, like ice in the pit of his stomach. He stood up, walked around to the far side of Sam's bed, and sat down. Sam didn't stir. He carefully slid the rapidly cooling heating pad out from beneath the ACE bandage and lifted the bandage itself so he could look beneath it.

_No blood_. He let out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding.  
Gingerly, he laid his hand over the bandage and shook his head. "You're a moron," he informed his unconscious brother. _And you better wake up. _

Dean got up and started pacing, suddenly restless. He thought wistfully of the pack of cigarettes he'd left in the glove compartment. Technically he didn't smoke, or didn't used to anyways, at least not since he was a teenager. But he'd kind-of-sort-of picked up the habit again over this past summer. And Sam, apparently still determined to let Dean do whatever the hell he wanted before he kicked the bucket, hadn't said anything about it, as long as he didn't do it in the car or motel, and kept all his opinions about _coping mechanisms_ or whatever he'd called it as a know-it-all teenager to himself.

Wouldn't take him long to blow through a pack. He needed to get out of the room. The weight of the entire situation was stifling, and he needed a reprieve, however short. Because he couldn't shake the terrible feeling that somehow, this was his fault. After all, it wasn't like that demon had promised to _keep _Sam intact after bringing him back. Hell, that'd probably be her idea of a great joke, wouldn't it? Taking Dean's soul and then screwing him over in the process. But he wouldn't watch Sam die all over again, he couldn't. And if he had to, there was no two ways about it. He'd put a bullet through his own head, let the bastards have him a few months ahead of schedule.

And to cap it all off, to think that Sam hadn't said a word about any of this because he didn't want to _upset _him. At the very least, if there was anything to convince him that Sam hadn't come back "different" like Yellow Eyes had claimed, it was that.

Even if it didn't explain the coldness with which he now approached the hunt, the seeming loss of those shades of gray that, while annoying, had always kept Sam more human in the midst of a hunt than anybody Dean had ever known. He'd seen him shoot Jake. And Casey. And if it was anybody but Sam who'd shot them, he'd have used the term "in cold blood."

But then again, that could just fueled by desperation. Or by rage that God knew he was justified in feeling. He hadn't come back wrong. He _hadn't. _

God, he needed some air…

At any rate, he figured Sam was okay for right now, as long as he stood in the doorway. So without bothering to throw his coat on, he left the room, frowned at the smell of vomit that still hung in the air outside despite the chill, and retrieved the cigarettes, as well as a lighter from his pocket. Sitting on the hood of the car, he lit the first one up and was about to raise it to his lips when a voice from out of nowhere nearly made him drop it.

"Those are bad for you, you know."

He wheeled around.

"Who-" He stared at her for a second, then realized who it probably was based on Bobby's and Sam's descriptions-a petite blonde- though he hadn't seen her in person yet. His insides seethed at the realization. "Ruby."

"Pleasure." She was standing about ten feet from the car, hands in her pockets, watching him. She was staring pointedly at the cigarette.

"Yeah, well, not exactly thinking long term here," he said, tossing the cigarette down and snuffing it out with his shoe.

"Oh no, don't stop on my account," she said, throwing her hands up and taking a step closer. "The girl I'm wearing's a smoker. She likes it. Makes her feel all warm and fuzzy inside."

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Actually, you know what? Never mind. I don't care what you're doing here, as long as you get the hell out. Now."

"Make me." She smirked. "Not so tough when you left all your weapons in the room, are you, hotshot?"

"What do you want?" he growled.

"Look," she said, putting a hand on her hip. "You don't need to get snarky with me, okay? I'm here because I know what's wrong with Sam."

And there it was again, that eerie, paranoid feeling that trickled down his spine whenever Ruby indicated that she seemed to know exactly where they were and what they were up to, _all the freaking time._

But still, if she knew something…

Not that he trusted her as a reliable source. That wasn't it at all.

"Oh, well then by all means," he drawled. "Please, share with the rest of the class."

She rolled her eyes, then gestured at the pack of cigarettes. "Here, gimme one of those."

"No," he said dryly.

She raised her eyebrows. "Fine."

"Talk."

She made a face. "Geez, wouldn't kill you to be polite. Alright, tell me," she said, planting a hand on her hip. "What town were you in for the hunt before this one?"

"You tell me," he muttered.

She frowned. "Alright, be that way. How long were you in Maple Springs, then?"

"What's it to you?"

She ignored that. "Did Sam disappear on you at all while you were up there?"

"Why?"

"Answer the question, dumbass."

"Oh yeah, I like you already." But Dean lit up another cigarette and thought, too drained to really argue with her anymore. "Uh…he took off by himself for awhile, the last night we were there. Came back with dinner for us. Figured he went off driving for a bit, I don't know. Cases with kids can get to you sometimes. Why?"

"Because this is insurance, that's why."

"What do you mean?"

She took a few steps closer. "You ever think that maybe this is Hell's sicko way of reminding Sam not try to welch out on the deal?"

"Oh." The second cigarette fell from his fingers.

_Damn it._

But still, that meant… "So, they're not gonna kill him?"

"No, they're not."

"How do you know? Thought a bunch of 'em saw him as some big rival-antichrist-type, and would be dying for any excuse to pick him off. Seems like a contract with some shitty fine print would do the job for them."

"Well yeah, but they wouldn't do it. Not this way."

"How do you know?"

She sat up on the hood of the car. Dean was too distracted to protest. "Remember the terms? They gave you a year. One year, to spend _with _Sam. Right?"

"Right…"

"Right. So, sneaky bastards or no, demons can't renege on their own pacts."

"Says who?"

"Says the _rules, _Einstein. We're all bound to them, whether we want to be or not."

Dean shook his head. "I don't buy that."

Ruby scoffed. "Have it your way, then. But keep this in mind. Demons? We're arrogant. All of us. Think of it as a fatal flaw. So if some demon with a superiority complex wants the great Sam Winchester's head on a plate, trust me, they're not gonna fall back on something as subtle and underhanded as a bad deal to get the job done. They'd rather rip his guts out with their bare hands, make themselves look all macho."

Well…

Yeah, that sounded like a demon all right. "I'm still not seeing what this has to do with Maple Springs, though."

"Did you consider that maybe he did something drastic, something that pissed people off in high places? Or, uh, low places, as the case may be, and now he's paying for it?"

"Drastic? Like what?" _Drastic _sure sounded like Sam alright. For better or worse, he never did anything halfway, did he…

Ruby crossed her arms. "Like, say, shooting your crossroads demon in the face?"

"What?" Dean spluttered. "No. When?"

"Back in Maple Springs," she said, pushing herself up off the car.

"No," he repeated, but a sinking feeling in his gut suggested otherwise. _Sam would, wouldn't he._

"Checked the Colt recently?"

Dean said nothing.

Ruby shrugged. "Fine. Obviously we're not getting anywhere here, so I'll go." She started to walk away, but she turned on her heel and looked back at him. "Listen. You did the right thing, calling your friend Bobby. Get him a doctor, get him some meds. He'll be fine. Just make sure he doesn't do anything else this stupid, 'cause next time there'll be spinal fluid leaking out of his ears."

Dean winced.

"Now if we're gonna get you out of this deal, we're gonna have to do it much more carefully than this. Tell him that. Got it? Good."

And then she was gone.

It was hours before he finally worked up the nerve to actually check the Colt—nearly dawn, right when Sam's medicine was just beginning to wear off.

He figured if he was gonna do it, he'd better do it before Sam actually woke. So, telling himself that he was just going to clean the weapons, and that he was _not_ doing it because he believed a thing that skank had told him, he finally popped open the chamber of the Colt and dumped the bullets out into his hand. One…two…

_Damn it, Sam._

Sure enough, one was gone.

He swore, set the Colt aside, and sat down on the edge of Sam's bed. Sam shifted slightly, forehead scrunching.

And the kicker? He couldn't even bring himself to be all that angry.

Feeling a headache coming on, Dean pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Sam, you stupid idiot…"

He heard rustling and a soft moan.

Dean looked down. Sam was blinking up at him, eyes unfocused and glazed over by sleep and pain and drugs. "Dean?" he managed, but it came out sounding more like _Dnnn?_ "Wha—"

"Nothing, Sammy." He sighed and reached down to ruffle Sam's hair. "Just go back to sleep, okay?"

"'Kay…"

There'd be plenty of time to talk later, chew him out for being stupid and reckless and obstinate...

And _Sam_. _Not_ a killer, he reminded himself. Not changed. Not a killer, not by nature, but a desperate, fiercely loyal and scared-to-death little brother, who couldn't get it through his thick head that Dean's already damned soul wasn't worth the risks he was taking. And Dean couldn't say that he wouldn't have gone after the crossroads demon and put a bullet through her brain, innocent girl notwithstanding, a long time before now if he'd been in Sam's place. The terrifying extremities he himself knew that he would go to to protect somebody he loved had never surprised him-he'd accepted them a long time ago. What took him aback was seeing Sam willing to do the exact same for him.

Yeah, there'd be time to talk about this.

But not now.

Careful not to jostle Sam, Dean kicked his shoes off, leaned back against the headboard, and shut his eyes.

_Not now._

*end*


End file.
